


Out of Sight

by absurdity



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blind Character, M/M, Viclock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9491924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absurdity/pseuds/absurdity
Summary: Sherlock had always known that he would lose his sight at some point. It was other loses that he wasn't prepared for.A.k.a. extremely sappy story of things lost and found again.





	1. 1990

**Author's Note:**

> Title is inspired by this song Lego House by Ed Sheeran. Me listening to too many sappy songs is probably the reason why this whole thing might be a bit cheesy and overly sentimental. Sorry for that. Or not.

 

_“Retinitis pigmentosa (RP) is the name given to a group of inherited eye diseases that affect the light-sensitive part of the eye (retina). RP causes cells in the retina to breakdown and die, eventually resulting in vision loss.”_

 

  
**_14th May 1990_**  
Sherlock was skinny and small for a thirteen year old, which was only amplified by his habit of slumping and so the plastic chair he was sitting on seemed way too big for him. It didn't help that he was perched at the very edge of it and his feet were still swinging a few inches above the tiled floor. The waiting room in the doctor's office was painted white and green, colours that were supposed to have a calming effect on the patients, but Sherlock hadn't noticed it so far during his repeated visits here. What he did notice was a discolouration in the upper right corner of the room near the ceiling, suggesting mold, which had been painted over.  
Sherlock had tried to share this observation with his mother the last time they had been here, but she hadn't seemed to pay too much attention to what he was saying. She had patted his head and murmured something under her breath, too quietly for Sherlock to catch the words.  
"My son isn't going blind!"  
She was much louder now, as she argued with the doctor in the next room. Sherlock could hear them both through the door, their voices distorted and muffled. For a moment Sherlock entertained the thought that it wasn't his mother and doctor Connel arguing, but two other people trying to imitate them and failing. He had never been good at pretending and soon enough the notion became too improbable and ridiculous. He had seen both his mother and the doctor inside the office before the doctor asked him to wait outside while she speaks with his mother. Sherlock didn't protest, though he considered it utterly unnecessary. Especially since he could hear most of the conversation anyway.  
"So it may not happen after all?" Mummy's voice got calmer and less loud, which, ironically, drew Sherlock's attention.  
"I said it's progressive, so it will probably take years for him to experience further symptoms. That doesn't mean you shouldn't consider-" The doctor got cut off by his mother and Sherlock quickly lost interest. He had enough of his mother's agitation at home.  
This whole ordeal seemed unreal, like it wasn't happening to him, but someone else. Technically, he knew it was him perched on the uncomfortable plastic chair, it was his mother yelling in the next room to cover up her refusal to accept that her son was going blind, but he felt more like an outside bystander. It was just like when he was in the car and his father was driving past some accident. Sherlock could see the crushed front of the red car and thin sliver of steam or smoke rising from where the engine was. He even noticed a small blood stain on the driver’s seat, but he was watching it all through a glass screen. There was no smell, no yelling, no unnecessary emotional responses.  
Sherlock would later recognize this state of dissociation as shock and spend years chasing it with help of various chemicals. For now, though, he was just finding it oddly pleasant. His mind was much clearer, allowing for better observations without having to deal with his own inner turmoil.

 

***

  
**_10th July 1990_**  
The offer of spending holidays at his brother's was surprising to say the least. They used to be close as children, with Sherlock following his brother nearly everywhere. He had been idolising Mycroft ever since one particular family dinner, when Mycroft asked their uncle why was he cheating on his wife. It was the moment when Sherlock decided that he wanted to be able to see things like that on people. Though, with years Mycroft became much more socially adept and refined at using his intellect for his own ends. His temper grew shorter and he didn’t have patience for Sherlock’s bluntness. And so when Mycroft had left for university, the brothers drifted apart.  
Mycroft's flat was small and painfully impersonal. The walls were painted the most unflattering shade of yellow possible and the curtains looked like they remembered previous tenants and possibly also the ones before as well. They were letting in little light making the flat look more like a motel room in one of those American horror movies Sherlock managed to sneak past his parents once or twice. The only thing missing was a murderer hiding in the bathroom or a closet. Sherlock immediately took over the sofa, throwing his bag on it and flopping down next to it, taking all of the available space.  
Mycroft looked as put together as always if only a bit more chubby. Sherlock wondered how his brother managed to look like he was heading for a business meeting even when he was carrying two plates with ready made microwaved meals. Sherlock wondered if he would ever learn to keep his composure so well.  
They ate in silence, which wasn't that uncommon for them, even in times when they had shared most of their lives. Neither of them enjoyed chatting just for the sake of being social. They both accepted that Sherlock really wasn’t interested in Mycroft’s course and Mycroft wasn’t curious how Sherlock was doing at school. They could gather all the relevant information from looking at each other and everything beyond that was boring. It was a blissful change from Mummy's nervous chatter that filled nearly every meal or spare moment nowadays.  
Mycroft finished eating first and he didn’t wait for Sherlock who had managed to get through half of his portion. He got up from his armchair and walked back into the small kitchen to wash the dishes. When he returned he was carrying a sheet of paper. Sherlock frowned when his brother set it in front of him. It took a Sherlock a few moments to realise that he was staring at Braille alphabet.  
“What’s that?”  
“Brother mine, don’t offend us both with idiotic questions like that.” Mycroft huffed. “Mummy can deny the existence of a problem, but that won’t make it go away.”  
Sherlock raised his brow, but he looked at the sheet in front of him.

 

***

 _ **20th July 1990**_  
“Keep your eyes closed, or I swear I’ll resort to a blindfold, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock stopped counting how many times Mycroft had scolded him already this afternoon. The atmosphere in the room was so thick that it could almost be cut with a knife.  
“It’s pointless!”  
Sherlock pushed the sheet of paper off the desk. He had been trying to learn Braille for most of the last ten days. But while learning the patterns of the dots and corresponding letters had been easy, it all was getting a whole lot more complicated when Sherlock was trying to recognize them just by tracing his fingers over them. Sherlock wasn’t used to having trouble with learning anything. If there was a subject he couldn’t get around it usually was due to his lack of interest not his inability to learn. And his brother hadn't been particularly helpful beyond snide remarks.  
“It will be if you keep refusing to cooperate.”  
Mycroft rubbed his temple in annoyance. He leaned to pick up the paper and set it back in front of Sherlock.  
“Again.”


	2. 1995 - 1997

 

 _ **28th November 1995**_  
The dorm was a surprise. Not entirely positive one and not entirely negative one, but it seemed to be a way of life in general. Victor had never lived with so many people, nor had he been sharing a kitchen with four other tenants. It was exciting, but also massively terrifying especially when he had realised that he had no idea how to use a washing machine and managed to accumulate a pile of dirty clothes that could easily compete with Nessie in terms of size within first few weeks of his first term. But no amount of dirty clothes was as surprising as Sherlock Holmes.

***

"What the hell do you want?"  
Sherlock stared at the guy who had been relentlessly knocking on his door for the last ten minutes. He had to slightly look up to see the other’s face, which came as a surprise, since Sherlock had gone through quite astonishing growth spurt, leaving him the tallest person in the room. Most of the time. The ridiculousness of the situation wasn’t particularly helped by the fact that this guy looked as if he had just climbed out of a Dead Poets Society movie complete with hairstyle, glasses and an argyle jumper. The effect was only spoiled by the jumper being paired with pyjama bottoms and the hairstyle having vibrant, ginger colour. It was an interesting combination, Sherlock had to admit.  
"Victor Trevor, nice too meet you too."  
"I don't care who you are. If it's that ridiculous light thing yet again-"  
"You can't seriously think that it's sensible to keep five lamps switched on in your room at all times. You're wasting so much energy, do you have any idea what effect on the environment it's having?"  
Sherlock raised his brow. This Victor guy looked genuinely convinced that environment was a cause worth fighting over. Sherlock knew that he should be annoyed out of his mind. And he was, sure. That idiot was putting his nose in what wasn't his business and he acted as if he had all the truth. But Sherlock was also finding it endearing to some degree. Victor had a lot of confidence, but it was completely different than the arrogance Sherlock often mistook the confidence for.  
"Okay, it's obviously important to you. Let's make a deal, then." Sherlock's face split into a mischievous grin, though it failed to reach his eyes. If there was one thing he knew how to do best, it was making use of such pure motives.  
Victor, in turn, seemed utterly confused.  
"A deal?"  
"Fritillaria meleagris. But the one grown from the wild not those cheap garden mixes. Bring me one bulb and I'll turn off the desk lamp."  
"You're kidding. That flower is critically endangered, not to mention insanely fragile! Good, old roses aren't enough for you?"  
Victor crossed his arms over his chest in an almost defensive manner, but Sherlock seemed not to notice. On the contrary, he appeared to be enjoying himself immensely.  
"It's a small sacrifice compared to the wasted energy, don't you think? Besides, I know you have it in the campus greenhouse."  
"You know that you're asking me to steal school property?"  
"I'm not asking, I'm offering."  
And with that Sherlock retreated back into his room, closing the door right in Victor's face. What a jerk, Victor thought returning to his own room.

  
***

  
**_7th December 1995_**  
"I haven't told you what I'm studying."  
Victor caught Sherlock in the shared kitchen. It was ungodly late, though it didn’t look like Sherlock felt sudden hunger. From what he could see Sherlock was doing something with the microwave, but it hardly looked like food. What it did look like was that it was probably forbidden by the dorms terms and regulations.  
Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes narrowed and his brows knitted together.  
"What?"  
"You've asked - _offered_ me a deal where I'd steal something from the greenhouse for you. And I've never told you that I'm studying botanics and have access to that place.” Victor crossed his arms over his chest, his whole posture beaming a particular kind of smugness, that was definitely teasing, but in a good-natured way. "You've been watching me."  
Sherlock looked completely stunned. He blinked a few times, which assured Victor that he was still alive, but other than that he looked like one of those animals that freeze in the face of danger.  
Seconds turned into minutes and though Victor wished he could see how this situation would unfold, they were interrupted by loud ringing coming from the microwave. And when Victor looked at it - _oh my god_ , there were _flames_!  
It was Victor's turn to freeze and just stare at this disaster. Sherlock snapped out of his stunned state and acted with the confidence of someone who wasn't doing it for the first time. Within next few minutes the microwave stopped burning with relatively few damages to the kitchen. The the stench of burnt plastic filled the room and the fire alarm rang in the halls.  
Most of the students were already out of their rooms and started heading towards the emergency exit. Victor grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him out of the kitchen, half dragging him along until they blended into the crowd.

***

Victor had just returned to his room after the firefighters cleared the building. His clothes were still stinking from the smoke and the only thing he wanted right now was a long shower, when he heard some commotion outside. It wasn’t any of his business, Victor knew that. He would be better off staying in his room and trying to avoid any troubles. He had enough for one day. Still, led by his innate curiosity, he simply had to see what it was. He cracked the door open a little, just enough so he could peek outside.  
His gaze stopped at Sherlock, who was slightly disheveled after the recent events, but other than that he looked just as disdainful as ever. Victor's attention was quickly drawn to a short and petite, but very animated and very loud woman was standing in the middle of the hallway and was pointing at the door to the kitchen.  
"Sherlock Holmes! Your final warning was last week! And this? The whole building evacuated, the firefighters! After the last time, I will no longer tolerate-"  
"It wasn't him. It was my fault."  
Victor wasn't sure when did he step out if his room and why he had just admitted to causing evacuation of the whole dorm. But suddenly he found himself face to face with said woman. On the closer look she looked just as unappealing as before. She may had been pretty once, but her prime years certainly were behind her and her features were twisted in anger, which now was mixing with shock and something oddly akin to disappointment.  
"I was reheating supper and forgot to take the fork out of the bowl. It was stupid of me, I know, but Sherlock has actually saved the day. He put out most of the flames before the fire spread out."  
Yes, that definitely was disappointment, Victor was sure of that now.  
"It was you?" She repeated, suddenly deflating. Victor gave her his best, apologetic smile, though he was sincerely hoping that she'd just leave now. He was starting to realise just how stupid of a decision it might have been to take the blame for this. After another few long moments she eventually headed out, but not before throwing one last "This goes into your record!” at Victor. And just like that he was alone with Sherlock.  
“You’re a good liar. You weren’t forcing eye contact or looking to the right too much. Very natural, not a lot of fiddling. Wouldn’t fool me, but less intelligent people for sure.”  
It wasn’t exactly a compliment Victor would expect, but was one that made him oddly proud nevertheless. He turned to Sherlock, his face splitting into a cheeky grin. Sherlock undoubtedly was a huge prick, but he was also the most interesting person Victor had met at Uni so far.  
“You simply have to tell me what last time she was talking about.”

 

***

 

 ** _30th January 1996_**  
Cold, winter evening slowly turned into even colder, dark night as Sherlock and Victor sat at the desk, an array of notes scattered over it. Victor stared idly at a page filled with various equations written in Sherlock's neat handwriting. He desperately tried to see some connection between this whirlwind of numbers and letters, but so far the only thing his mind managed to come up with was _Bloody hell, I'm never going to pass this_.  
Sherlock was already sitting on his hands trying to hold back the urge to solve the equations himself. Well, there wasn't much to solve anyway. Most of these tasks were absolutely trivial. He stifled annoyed huff when Victor started filling the gaps.  
“When I agreed to help you with inorganic chemistry I didn't suspect that you’d be this dumb at it.”  
Sherlock complained, his hand swiftly circling all the spots where Victor had made a mistake. Victor couldn't help, but notice that the amount of circles hasn't really lessened since they had started this tutoring two hours ago. Sherlock sighed, leaning back in his chair and throwing his hands into air in an exaggerated gesture.  
“You're hopeless, Victor. I don't get it, you have no problem with understanding the principles, the way reactions happen, you are practically more proficient in organic chemistry than me, but you turn into an idiot the second you see an equation.”  
“Did I just hear a compliment moments before you called me an idiot?”  
Victor smiled cheekily at Sherlock, trying to bring some joke into the frustration both shared. Sherlock gave him of of his indecipherable looks and got up from his seat. He crossed the room and opened the window before pulling a pack of cigarettes from a pocket of his trousers. Victor’s brows knitted together.  
“Oi, we’re not supposed to smoke in the rooms! Besides, we’re in my room, I don't want it reeking of cigarette smoke.”  
His protests had literally no effect, as Sherlock had already lit a cigarette and now was blowing smoke vaguely in the direction of open window, though most of it was already seeping into the room.  
“I can't get through this without at least one fag.”  
He replied with a shrug.  
“You're what? Nineteen? Depending on addictive substances to get you through something at that age doesn't pain your future in bright colours.”  
Victor teased, though Sherlock ignored him as he stalked deeper into the room and picked up a pen. He leant over the desk and started filling in the formulas Victor had been trying to solve earlier. The tip of his cigarette was hovering inches above the desk surface and a dozen of possible tragic scenarios ran through Victor’s mind in an instant. He would be lying if he said that he wasn't fascinated by Sherlock’s unconstrained nonchalance. In most people their age this sort of behaviour was a painfully obvious pose, an attempt at appearing older than they were which only made even more noticeable that they were just a bunch of kids. But for some reason Sherlock was able to pull it off. More, it actually suited him perfectly.  
“Are you even listening to me?”  
It took Victor a second to realise that the question was directed at him and Sherlock had been explaining something for a while now. Victor swallowed, bringing himself back to reality.  
“You know, on second thought… Could you spare me a cigarette?”

 

***

 

 ** _25th May 1996_**  
Victor stared at Sherlock as if he was seeing him for the first time.  
“You gotta be kidding me.”  
He muttered, his eyes drilling into Sherlock. He was slumped on his bed, his left sleeve was rolled up and the needle marks on his arm were clearly visible. Victor couldn't bring himself to look away. It was terrifying, but in a way Victor was mesmerised. He had never seen Sherlock so relaxed. God, he was actually smiling at him. And it was not one of those smug, know-it-all smiles.  
“Not joking, just offering.”  
Sherlock murmured lazily, raising his brow. Victor considered pinching himself just to see whether he was dreaming. He crossed the room and sat down on the bed. He knew that Sherlock had a fairly lax attitude towards rules, he had proved that many times already, but this was making Victor more than a little uneasy.  
“What about the whole “this is your brain on drugs” thing?”  
Sherlock shrugged.  
“Don't be such a wuss, Vic. There is absolutely no scientific relation between an egg and human brain. Frankly, it was just a waste of a perfectly good egg.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I’m a chemist, what could go wrong?”  
“Everything? And you’re not a chemist yet.”  
“Details. I’m smarter than every single professor who teaches me anyway.”  
Victor shook his head with a laugh. He reached his hand and picked up a syringe laying on the bed next to Sherlock. He turned it in his fingers, with some dose of curiosity. It was single most relaxed conversation he had had with Sherlock. Usually, unless the subject was chemistry, it felt more like dragging replies out of the man. Victor knew that he had a reputation of being the only one who was getting along with Sherlock and even he couldn’t say that he knew a lot about Sherlock’s personal life.  
“I’m glad to see that you’re still just as much of a prick as when you’re sober.”  
Victor murmured and Sherlock snorted at that.  
“I’m not a prick, I’m just being honest. Most people are idiots.”  
“Am I?”  
“What?”  
“An idiot?”  
“It depends.”  
Victor was about to ask Sherlock to elaborate when he was cut off by Sherlock suddenly sitting up. He dragged himself to the edge of the bed. Sitting this close, Victor could see how huge Sherlock’s pupils were. His usually light greyish eyes were now almost completely black.  
“Come on. Give me your arm.”  
Sherlock said expectantly, nearly bouncing with excitement. Victor hesitated.  
“I dunno, Sherlock.” He muttered. “I don’t think it’s my cup of tea.”  
“How can you know if you have never tried it? If it’s about your fear of needles-”  
Victor raised his brow, catching a hint of challenge in Sherlock’s tone. It could have been one of the dumbest decisions in his life, but Victor couldn’t pass a challenge. He held his arm out to Sherlock.

 

***

 

 ** _26th May 1996_**  
The name Little America was just a beginning of a string of clichés when it came to the diner at Angel Street. Its bright lights were making it visible from the end of the street, especially since it was the only place open this late. It was a typical American diner, which only made it stand out more in typical British neighbourhood. Victor was sure that his family would have never done as much as look at such establishment not to mention actually eating there. Which shouldn't make him too surprised to find that Sherlock was leading him straight towards the front door.  
"Why is this place even open this late?"  
"I asked the owner to wait for us. He owes me a favour."  
"What? Don't tell me he's some mafia boss you've saved from prison."  
It was intended as joke, but Sherlock didn't broke into expected laughter. Instead he looked surprised and mildly impressed. Victor knew he should probably be scared that these sort of revelations did not surprise him anymore. Anything was possible when it came to Sherlock.  
“He's more a petty criminal than mafia boss, really. I did gave a few of his rivals to the police in exchange for food on the house.”  
“Your priorities are really fucked up, mate.” Victor muttered following Sherlock into the diner. They sat into a corner, though not before earning themselves a sideways glance from the waitress who looked like a tired badger with dark circles under her eyes and mop of dark hair hanging loosely around her face. Victor almost immediately felt bad for such comparison, but it had already settled in his mind and he couldn't get it out of his head.  
Victor and Sherlock shared a plate of chips and a jug of coffee between them in silence. If not for the past twelve hours they’d spent in arrest after Sherlock decided to insult an officer by listing his recent affairs, Victor would count that as the weirdest experience of his life.  
“You could do that for a living, you know?”  
Victor was first to break the silence. Sherlock looked up from his cup.  
“What?”  
“Give the police the solutions to their crimes.You can dissect a person in seconds, they would run to you with all those unsolvable cases. Something like a detective consultant. Oh, I know - a consulting detective.”  
Victor’s bright grin was met only with a raised eyebrow on Sherlock’s side.  
“If I didn't know better, I’d say you're still high. That’s single most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”  
“You see? It fits you perfectly.”  
Victor retorted teasingly, finally managing to coax a smile out of Sherlock. Victor relaxed slightly and leant back in his seat.  
“Come on then. Do her.”  
He said, glancing to the waitress. It was almost a tradition between them already. Victor loved listening to Sherlock’s deductions and he would pick random people on the street for Sherlock to deduce. Sherlock had done it countless times already, but Victor was still finding it incredible, the way Sherlock effortlessly could pick people apart. Sherlock glanced at the woman with a neutral expression.  
“Single, uneducated. One-- No, two cats. Oh. She’s pregnant, though she doesn’t know that yet. She probably doesn’t know who the father is.”  
“How on earth would you know that last one?”  
“Have you seen the stains on her sleeves?”  
Sherlock shrugged, though his eyes were almost sparkling when he looked back to Victor and noticed his awed expression.  
“You look like an idiot.”  
Sherlock murmured with a small, lopsided smirk

 

***

 

 ** _17th February 1997_**  
"I'm going blind."  
"Like, right now? Bloody hell, mate, you know I'm studying botanics, not medicine?" Victor asked, giving Sherlock one of his cheeky, lopsided grins. He was sitting on the bed next to Sherlock and skimming through one of his textbooks, though now he was looking at Sherlock with a raised brow. They were both in Victor’s room, since Sherlock's bedroom now looked more like a laboratory than a place when one could sleep.  
"No, you idiot!"  
Sherlock was doing his best to keep a straight face, but soon enough a corner of his mouth twitched and before he could compose himself he was laughing along with Victor. He didn't even notice when they shifted on the bed, but now Victor was leaning over him, his hands braced on the mattress on both sides of Sherlock's body and his ginger hair brushing over Sherlock's face. For a moment Sherlock forgot that there was a world beyond that cheeky smirk and sparkling eyes.  
Victor had a way of doing that. He always charmed the hell out of everyone in the room and was capable of cracking a joke even in the direst of situations. Drugs seemed to amplify that part of his personality. It was so easy to forget his problems around Victor.  
Sherlock had already noticed some time ago that he was becoming entirely different person when he was with Victor. He was still moody and sarcastic to a core, but he was losing the arrogant edge to his demeanour. And he was surprised to find that he actually liked that person.  
Victor in turn seemed to loosen up quite a lot. No one would mistake him for a proper English boy anymore. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he saw him in one of those ridiculous jumpers and he had apparently forfeit the idea of cutting his hair as it was only getting longer and more unruly these days.  
"You were saying?"  
Victor murmured, his grin only getting wider, as he noticed Sherlock's distracted expression.  
"Victor, I'm being serious-"  
At least as much as he could be while having a potentially lethal mix of drugs travelling through his system and Victor's stupidly grinning face inches away from his own. Though Victor clearly wasn't in the mood for anything serious, he dropped onto the bed next to Sherlock, propping his head on his hand as he looked at Sherlock expectantly.  
"There's not much to be told really." Sherlock muttered, suddenly feeling oddly nervous. "It's called retinitis pigmentosa. Genetic. Progressive. So it won't happen now, but over the course of the years." He blurted out in short sentences.  
"Are you- experiencing any symptoms already?" Victor asked, instinctively recognizing that it was easier for Sherlock to discuss it in a matter of fact kind of way rather than hear empty reassurances.  
"Only when it's dark."  
"That's why you kept all those lamps on, isn't it?"  
Victor said with sudden realisation. But apparently Sherlock decided they were done talking, as the only reply he graced Victor with was turning his back towards him and pulling a blanket over himself.  
Victor sighed, but he knew that he wasn't getting anything more out of Sherlock tonight. If he ever was, for that matter.

 

***

 

 _ **30th March 1997**_  
Victor blew the smoke from the cigarette for a moment disappearing in a grey cloud.  
“You're being ridiculous, Will. Of course, I need to go home.”  
Sherlock's whole demeanour was a picture of grim annoyance.  
“I’m not being ridiculous, I just think it's not wise for you to go.”  
“It's not wise to go and visit your sick father? Come on, even you have to see that it’s the right thing to do. And what’s your problem anyway? It's not like they're going to tie me up and ship me out of the country.”  
Sherlock snorted at that. He looked up at Victor who began pacing the length of the room.  
They rarely fought and even when they did it was mostly about academic things. This was different, though. Much more personal. And that was making Sherlock’s stomach flip. Victor usually trusted his deductions, even marvelled at them, but now he seemed completely deaf.  
“He’s faking it.”  
“You haven't just suggested that my father is faking cancer.”  
Victor’s gaze was suddenly icy, but Sherlock was too deep in his own anger to notice.  
“I haven't suggested, I’ve deduced. And I don't make mistakes in my deductions.”  
Victor didn't reply. He stopped in front of the open window. He leant on the windowsill, his face turned away from the room and Sherlock who was occupying the only available chair.  
A few long moments have passed and Victor still haven't said a word. Sherlock wasn't used to Victor’s silence. Usually Victor was the one who kept the conversation going whether by cracking some stupid joke or just finding another subject to discuss. Eventually, Sherlock couldn't take the silence any longer.  
“You can't ignore just how blatant of a manipulation it is.”  
Victor froze halfway through flicking the ash off his cigarette, his hand hovering outside of the window.  
“Get out, Sherlock. Now.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how long it took me to find the name of argyle pattern. Eventually, I resigned to digging through mens section of online shops. Anyway, now I know how that pattern is called in English while still having no idea how it's called in my native language.  
> Also yes, English is not my first language, so please, excuse all mistakes (feel fee to point them out, though! I want to improve).  
> If you’re wondering why Victor is ginger here, that’s because Domhnall Gleeson is my absolute favourite cast for him (seriously tho - look at [this photo](http://i.imgbox.com/jOZeqfwW.jpg))  
> In this chapter when Sherlock and Victor are talking about “this is your brain on drugs” thing and eggs, they mean [this psa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ub_a2t0ZfTs). I know it came out way before '96 and it's American not British. I still wanted to include it. Because reasons.


End file.
